


Gray Would Be the Color, if I had a Heart

by Deans_Fetish



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anger, Angst, F/M, Het-ish-ness, M/M, Slash-ish-ness, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-11
Updated: 2010-05-11
Packaged: 2018-11-06 07:06:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11031132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deans_Fetish/pseuds/Deans_Fetish
Summary: Michael comes to Dean in the form of an old friend to help heal his broken heart after losing Sam.





	Gray Would Be the Color, if I had a Heart

**Author's Note:**

> MAYBE 5:22 Spoiler if you squint and tilt your head to the side...
> 
> This is um...yeah...Just read it. I don't know how to explain it...

The whiskey burned a trail down his throat as Dean knocked back his second bottle, but he didn’t notice, didn’t feel it, the only thing that he could feel was the one thing he was fighting to snuff out, the horrible ache in his chest left there by the death of his baby brother. 

Sam had died that day, after saying ‘yes’ to Lucifer in hopes of luring the bastard back into his cage. At first they hadn’t thought that Sam was going to be able to do it, it sure hadn’t looked that way. Dean had gotten the shit kicked out of him before Sam had finally been able to gain control long enough to stop him, somehow force the bastard to jump. 

That had been the last time Dean was ever able to look at his brother again. The seals all slammed closed as soon as Sam had jumped, trapping his brother in the fire along with the Morning Star. 

His Sammy was gone and there was no getting him back, there was no angel to jump in after Sam and save him, to pull him from his perdition. 

Castiel was as human now as Dean was, and no one else seemed to give a Goddamn. The ex-angel had taken to that damn self - help yoga crap in order to deal with his feelings, unlike Dean who had turned to the only things he knew; booze, broads and living like every day was his last, because deep down, without Sam, Dean wished it was. 

He could still see Sam sitting there at motel tables hammering away on his laptop, there were even times he could swear he heard the click of keys as his brother typed. 

It had taken two weeks before Dean stopped automatically getting two sodas, tables for two and rooms with two queen beds. 

Not that they always used the two beds anymore… unless of course they broke one, or Sam refused to sleep in the wet spot. 

Yeah, those kinds of thoughts only made him hurt more. 

Dean lifted the bottle to his lips again, chugging back the contents, letting the burn of alcohol make up for the loss of the sultriness from Sam’s kisses, the warmth in his touch, the heat in his eyes. 

He could still taste Sam’s flavor on his lips at night if he closed his eyes and licked them, could still hear his passionate sighs in the quiet of the room as he lay alone in bed, wishing desperately for one last time with Sam like some love starved fool, but then maybe that‘s what he was, what he had been reduced to. 

There was a reason Dean Winchester didn’t do the love thing, and this was it, but he could never deny Sam. Not the last cookie, not the prize in the Lucky Charms box, not Fourth of July’s their father would have never allowed, and definitely not his love. 

As much as Dean always tried to come off as hard and detached from most everything and everyone else, he’d never been able to do that with Sam, with him, Dean’s heart lay open on is sleeve, exposed and vulnerable. 

Maybe that’s why this hurt so Goddamn bad. 

Soul mates, Ash had said… what about Sam being his very soul? He wasn’t so sure that wasn’t more like it, because now, he felt empty just like Famine had accused him of being, a burnt and broken shell of a man, like Castiel had once said. 

Yeah, that was him now. 

His reason to go on, to fight, to live, had died along with his friend, his brother, his lover, his world, and now there was nothing but empty fathomless blackness. 

Setting the bottle down on the bedside table, Dean stood to his feet, shrugging out of his long sleeve shirt, tossing it down on the foot of his lone bed, the single room feeling more empty than normal tonight, his world more barren. 

Reaching down he fumbled with the button and zipper of his jeans, the memory of the last time Sam had done this, had unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans for him flashing through his mind, they’d been kissing and touching getting one another hot and bothered as they drove back to the motel and then once the door had closed behind them, they’d nearly attacked one another, tongues tangling, hands searching, bodies straining against each other. 

It had been a good night, damn good. 

And then in the morning, Sam had awoken him with coffee and breakfast waiting, a ready smile on his face. He remembered having taken the coffee and the bag of food before hurling a pillow at Sam for the happy grin that was spread across his face, making his dimples show. 

How could the kid be happy first thing in the morning like that? Had to be a birth defect. 

Pushing his jeans down to his thighs, Dean turned around and sat back down on the side of the bed, toeing off his boots before kicking off his jeans, leaving them in a heap on the floor - just the way Sam hated him to do - then climbed into bed, sitting with his back leaning against the headboard as he reached for the bottle of whiskey. 

If he was lucky, he’d drink himself unconscious again tonight and avoid the nightmares or the haunting dreams of Sam crawling into bed next to him, only to wake so positive Sam was really there that when he isn’t, Dean is once more reduced to a blubbering idiot. 

Sunglasses had become his nearly constant companion lately. 

It was somewhere near dusk, the sun just starting to break over the horizon far in the distance when Dean passed out in his bed, the empty whiskey bottle still held tightly in one hand. 

~ ♥ ~ ♥ ~ ♥ ~ ♥ ~*~*~*~ ♥ ~ ♥ ~ ♥ ~ ♥ ~

Standing at the side of the bed, the Archangel tilted his head, a look of compassion on his vessel’s face. Heaven‘s ‘The Dean’ had been through much in the past two years, the least of which being the death of his beloved brother, none knew this better than the Archangel Michael who stood at his bedside now. The Archangel had invested a lot of time and attention to the human hunter and he had witnessed each heartbreak, watched as each tear fell from the Winchester’s eyes. 

Stepping forward, Michael reached out with his vessel’s delicate hand and plucked the bottle from Dean’s gasp, placing it on the bedside table before moving to sit on the bed’s edge, looking down at Dean’s sleeping form, silently watching him a long while before reaching out with one hand to smooth his hand over the creases in the Winchester’s brow, easing the nightmare he was locked in the grasp of, changing it and making it for once, not end with Dean watching his brother die.

Neither booze nor another nightmare reliving Sam’s horrible death could keep Dean from being roused from sleep at the feel of someone touching him. The question was, who the hell was it, and how had they gotten in past the hex bags, the salt line at the doors and windows and angel script written on the walls about the room. 

“I know you’re awake, Dean.” Michael spoke with the voice of his vessel, a soft smile curving his lips. 

Dean’s eyes shot open as he jackknifed up in the bed, scrambling for Ruby’s knife that he kept under his pillow, holding it out before him in one fisted hand. 

“Hello, Dean.” Michael greeted softly. 

“Who - what the hell are you? You can’t be you!” Dean snapped, his mind still slightly sleep fogged.

Michael’s eyes fell from Dean’s face as he looked down at his vessel a moment before slowly raising his head, his dark brown eyes once more locking on the Winchester’s startled green. 

“No,” he allowed, “I am not Jo and this is not real.” Michael answered, “You’re dreaming, Dean, I wanted to come to you, to help ease your pain and suffering.” His lips quirked slightly at the corner, “You’re a hard man to locate, so I was reduced to these means.” 

Dean eyed the Archangel, “So you came to me as Jo?” he scoffed, “You’ve got a really shitty idea of what would make me feel better.” 

Michael’s head tilted to the side, brow knitting thoughtfully. “Really? I would have thought that coming to you as someone you once loved, once desired would be a good thing, what you needed.”

Dean huffed softly. He should probably be reaching for the angel sword on the floor next to the bed, but he was past the point of caring anymore. “What I need is Sam.” he grumbled, turning his head away from the Archangel. 

“I felt this vessel would be… easier for your broken spirit and shattered heart to bear,” Michael answered. 

Dean snorted; shaking his head as he slowly looked back at the Archangel. “Easier? Now you worry about what is easier for me? That’s funny coming from the likes of you,” he spat, “you wanna know what would be easier for me? For you to fly your happy ass down to where ever the hell my brother is and bring him back,” his eyes narrowed angrily at the Archangel, “And don’t you tell me that you can’t do it! It’s not can’t, it’s won’t!” He tore his gaze away from Michael, hanging his head, “You and I both know that.” 

“I know how hard it is for you to understand, Dean,” Michael offered softly. 

“Understand?” Dean asked looking back at the Archangel. He nodded, “Yeah, I got this major problem with understanding how you angels can just leave my brother down there,” he scoffed, “it’s because of him that Lucifer is back in his cage at all.”

“It was due to him that Lucifer was freed,” Michael pointed out gently. 

“I broke the first seal,” Dean whispered, his head hanging as he shook it, unshed tears beginning to sting his eyes. 

“Yes, and he the last.”

Dean’s head snapped up, “You all wanted him to! You made Castiel let him out of the panic room!” 

“It is no longer within my power to change things Dean,” the Archangel explained calmly, “So it is written…”

“Don’t! Don’t you say it! If you say it, I swear to your God, Archangel or not, I will kick your ass!” Dean yelled, interrupting Michael. 

Michael reached out, Jo’s hand cupping Dean’s cheek, “Dean,” he murmured gently, his name a mere whisper falling from the Archangel’s lips. 

Dean reached up with a hand, knocking Michael’s hand away, glaring at the angel before dropping his gaze head hanging, “Don’t.” He mumbled softly. 

Since when had Jo learned to give the same ‘puppy eyed’ look as Sam, eyes wide and sad, beseeching him to understand. 

No one had the right to look like that, no one but Sam; it was Sam’s look, only his. 

“He blamed himself,” Dean whispered thickly, “for the whole Apocalypse, for everything. He blamed himself, and all he wanted was redemption,”

Michael slowly shook his head, long blond hair brushing his vessel’s shoulders and falling forward, “No,” he answered softly, “not all… at least, it wasn’t why he did it,”

Dean slowly lifted his head, jade eyes shining with unshed tears as he looked at the Archangel, at Jo.

“He did it for you,” Michael explained gently, giving a soft sympathetic sad smile. 

Dean’s breaths hitched, jaw clenching before he quickly let his head hang, tears filling his eyes. “No, Sammy, no…” he whispered brokenly. 

Slowly lifting his head, Dean looked into the Archangel’s face, into Jo’s face, her golden hair seeming to glow even in the dim light of early morning in the dingy motel room, her dark eyes shining with something akin to affection and wisdom that surpassed anything his friend had ever possessed. 

Archangel. 

In that moment it was evident, even if Dean had wanted to pretend otherwise that it really wasn’t Jo sitting there before him, but the Archangel Michael. 

As Michael stared back at the Winchester he allowed his vessel’s eyes to change, their shape becoming more slanted, their color morphing from dark brown into a cat-like kaleidoscope of hazel green. 

“He always loved you.” Michael murmured tenderly. 

Dean gasped in a breath, reaching out to cup the back of Michael’s neck as he scooted forward on the bed, moving closer to the Archangel, tears making silent tracks down the Winchester’s cheeks. “Sammy,” he whimpered brokenly before slanting his mouth over Michael’s, tongue pressing past Jo’s lips and into her mouth, tongue running over the roof of her mouth and mapping out the contours before tangling with Jo’s own. 

He didn’t care that it wasn’t Jo, didn’t care that it was Michael the Archangel, in that moment for Dean, it was Sam, his Sammy and that was all that mattered.


End file.
